And that’s when I see it.
A bottle of Sovetskoye Shampanskoye sitting on the countertop with a red ribbon tied around the neck. I somehow force my fingers to move, to pick up the little card attached. My name is printed in the bold scrawl I would recognize anywhere.
Skal’pel’s handwriting.
Skal’pel’s gift.
Soviet champagne was a favorite of mine when I worked for him. It was the first alcohol I’d had to drink as a youth, and I suppose I still bought it out of familiarity. Certainly not out of good taste. I hate the stuff now.
My heart thuds thick and painfully in my chest. My stomach fills with acid.
Skal’pel’s here—in Chicago. As I feared, when word got out about me, it also reached him. I’m the loose end that he didn’t tie up well enough when he closed up shop.
With trembling fingers, I flip the card. A small photo is taped to the back of the card. It takes me a moment to make it out, but when I do, I almost throw up.
The image is of Sasha and Story in the hot tub on the roof.
Skal’pel’ was into games. He would set up tests for me to complete. Testing my loyalty again and again.
I always passed.
Perhaps that’s why he let me live.
Many, many times in prison I wished he’d just killed me.
But now? Fuck—now?
Story is in my bed. The most beautiful light of my life. The only thing I have worth living for.
Skal’pel’ knows about Story. He shot at her from the rooftop, or more likely, had one of his lackey’s shoot at her. That fits. The shooter should have known they couldn’t hit anyone. The bullets were a warning. A threat. So that when I held this photo in my hand, I would experience real fear for the safety of my beautiful swallow.
My insides turn cold. Swampy. Slimy. Skal’pel’s next move, if I don’t answer this message, will be to hurt Story. And it won’t be in a typical way. It will be something sick and twisted. Something that would cause me nightmares for the rest of my life. Not that I would live to let it happen to her.
No.
I won’t let him near her. Story Taylor must be protected above all else. And that means I have to offer myself up to Skal’pel’. If he wants me dead, he can have me.
He already knows I will sacrifice myself for her. He has no need to make the dark, overt threats. We both know what he’s capable of. And he knows me, inside and out.
He knows I would step in front of a bus for the people I love.
But he has no idea the depths of what I’d do for Story.
I leave the bottle on the counter, untouched. I walk quietly back down the dark corridor to my bedroom and open up the drawer in my walk-in closet where I store all the money Ravil’s paid me since I started working for him. Other than buying the Denali, I don’t spend it. The only activities I have are watching Story play.
I pull out a duffel bag and pack all the stacks of cash into the bag. I get the iPad and open a window with my Swiss bank account—the one Skal’pel’ left me somewhere between cutting off my tongue and framing me on drug charges. I make Story the beneficiary, then I compose a message for her.
It’s only a couple hours until sunrise. Time enough to lie down beside Story one last time before I go…
Chapter 13
Story
The only reason I wake is because I no longer feel Oleg’s solid form beside me. I snuggle into the soft sheets, relishing the smell of him that still lingers. After another moment, I crack my eyes and look at the bedside clock. Eleven in the morning. That’s pretty normal for me the morning after a gig. I sit up and rub my eyes, looking around.
Oleg doesn’t seem to be in the room.
Maybe he went for bagels again.
I swing my legs out of the bed and almost trip over a duffel bag beside it. On top of the navy canvas bag is Oleg’s iPad. I smile. He left me a note.
I grab the iPad and wake it up.
Story,
You are my reason for living, so of course, it is easy to make this choice.
A cold chill sweeps across my limbs. Renders me limp. My fingers holding the iPad tremble.
My death is the best protection for you. Take this money, so I can continue to protect you from the grave.
I love you, my lastochka.
No!
I might have screamed it. Maybe several times.
All I know is that a pounding starts up on the door to the penthouse.
Sobbing, I yank on one of Oleg’s t-shirts. The door opens, and Oleg’s friends pour in. I don’t see them. I barely hear them over the screaming in my head.